


Pierre & Anatole (Confrontation)

by eggwriter



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Anal, Angry but Very Consensual, Desk Sex, I Wrote This in 24 Hours Because My Useless Friend Wouldn't Do It, Intimidation, M/M, Overstimulation, Pierre & Anatole, Pierretole, Rough Sex, Self Indulgent Garbage, Size Difference, Smut, ends fluffy, everyone has a good time, i hope you didnt come here for angst bc LOOOOOL, m/m - Freeform, porn with slight plot, this scene in the musical is so horny why are there so few fics about this ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 01:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13112514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggwriter/pseuds/eggwriter
Summary: The 'Pierre & Anatole' confrontation but it goes, happens and ends very differently. There's still a desk involved.





	Pierre & Anatole (Confrontation)

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays, here's my first ever fic, it's Anatole being gay and Pierre gets laid and please get on the pierretole train

 

“I don’t consider myself bound to answer questions put to me in that tone,” lulls Anatole and tosses his legs onto Pierre’s desk. Anatole’s boots nudge at Pierre’s books and papers, and his expression is somewhere between a pout and a sly grin, and Pierre suddenly burns with anger.

 

“How dare you speak like that in my own house–!” snarls Pierre and in movement fueled by rage he yanks Anatole’s legs down from the desk and grabs him by the collar of his shirt. Anatole doesn’t have time to react more than wide eyes and a clenched jaw, as Pierre’s grip firms and he drags the young man to his feet, faces so close the heat is tangible.

 

Pierre doesn’t think, he just moves.

“When I tell you I must talk to you!” he growls, both sad and furious, and lifts Anatole up by his collar and heaves him up so they are face to face.

Anatole looks afraid now. Afraid but flustered, eyes wide and hands holding onto Pierre’s grip so that he does not fall onto the floor – as if Pierre would let him, fuming and wanting Anatole to for once face consequences for his actions.

 

He throws Anatole back down onto the desk, the man landing with a groan and grasping it as if he needs to steady himself, jaw clenched tight and eyes fogged over with something Pierre doesn’t recognize. He’s never seen any of the Kuragins afraid, maybe their fear translates to faces of frustration and trembling hands.

“Pierre, this is stupid,” mumbles Anatole thickly.

“You know what’s stupid? A Moscow _pup_ deciding to elope with some poor young girl? Are you an idiot? Do you know what this will do to both your families?”

 

Anatole says nothing, and Pierre’s entire body spikes with rage.

 

“Anatole!” he shouts, and when the young man doesn’t say anything, Pierre grabs him by his shirt and turns him so they’re face to face and is met with distant eyes and a bitten lip.

 

Pierre pins Anatole to the oak desk by the collar, large hands at his throat and Anatole gasps out for air despite Pierre’s fists not choking him.

“Are you listening to me?” scolds Pierre, boxing Anatole in further so that Pierre is all encompassing. When Anatole still does nothing but chew on his lower lip and stare away, Pierre shoves his knee dangerously close to his crotch and Anatole yelps out.

“Pierre, please, count Bezukhov–,“ he meekly protests as if any titles will do more than boil Pierre’s blood at this point.

“I want you to listen to me for once in your airhead life, you _scoundrel_ , because this needs to–“

 

Something presses against the front of Pierre’s thigh, and his rage drops cold just for a second.

His leg is right at the junction of Anatole’s legs, pressed to his groin as Anatole refuses to meet his gaze and– God in heaven, he's hard.

The cold in Pierre’s gut surges towards grotesque curiosity and pallid disgust; Anatole’s behavior, his thick voice and his flushed face, things that might have been fear but also _something else_ –

 

“You’re kidding me,” Pierre says and is so torn between being fascinated and furious that he cannot move his leg away.

“I wish I was,” mutters Anatole and the red flush on his cheeks is almost cute. “It’s not my fault, I can’t control what I enjoy.”

“And what you enjoy is this? Being treated like a puppet? Is that what Dolokhov does to you?”

Anatole looks away even further, truly refusing to meet Pierre’s gaze, doing his best not to move but with every breath he takes his arousal brushes against Pierre’s thigh.

“It’s not because of you,” explains Anatole and it’s so rare and nearly endearing to see him shy, “it could be anyone– Pierre please either get your leg off _me_ or get me _off_ –“

“Like _this_?” Pierre asks, in a soft yet mocking tone, and he shifts his thigh against Anatole’s arousal and immediately gets an abrupt inhale.

 

He rolls his leg like that, firm grinds against Anatole’s confined cock and when Anatole whines it sends a burning shiver down Pierre’s spine and to his nethers, and he curses his own body. Anatole clearly, _very clearly_ want this and God in heaven help him, so does Pierre. It has been a while – Hélène certainly doesn't pay him any attention, and he's too shy to ask for further company at clubs and brothels. 

“Like that?” he asks again, he needs to be certain.

“Yes,” Anatole murmurs almost soundlessly and Pierre allows some of his fiery temper to return to his voice.

“What'd you say? Speak up,” Pierre asks and makes his voice loud and brash, and Anatole groans in the back of his throat.  _He likes when I'm aggressive_ , Pierre realizes with silent terror and embarrassing excitement.

“Yes, like that–“

“Heavens, Anatole, have you lost your mind?”

“Have you?”

 

Pierre is in fact hard now, not as firm as Anatole but enough to be a nuisance. Anatole must notice it, because he nudges at Pierre’s crotch with his knee and sends sparks flying in his blood.

“Is this what _you_ want?” Anatole asks, and something smug creeps back into his expression and Pierre remembers his fury.

 

He leans in and gives Anatole something between a kiss and a bite on the mouth, tugging on his already swollen bottom lip with his teeth. Anatole eagerly kisses back, and if not for the situation they were in Pierre could consider kissing and biting him for the rest of the night.

 

He’s known Anatole for seven years, since Pierre was a small young man and shy and meek while Dolokhov and Anatole were somewhat younger but far bolder. Their antics, their rituals of courting women and each other with sly grins and firm touches. Pierre who been to shy to join them, to even think of it, and now he has Anatole helpless in his arms. The horrid young man that only asked Pierre for fifty rubles once or twice a week, now grinding himself against Pierre’s thigh and moaning into his mouth.

 

“More,” encourages Anatole in a voice clouded with affection, and Pierre breaks the kiss to scoff.

“You think you’re in any position to make demands?” Pierre asks with a laugh, face a mere inch away from Anatole’s. He can see his eyes foggy with arousal, every bright eyelash and hair of his eyebrow, and sweat on his cheeks.

“You’re certainly being encouraging,” quips Anatole, almost definitely to egg on Pierre’s rage, and a little embarrassingly enough it works.

 

Pierre grabs Anatole by the peak of his hair, taking it in one firm grip and pulling back – not too roughly because the last thing he wants to do is genuinely and irreparably harm the man.

But Pierre doesn’t hurt him at all; Anatole gasps sharply at the gesture, eyes screwed shut as he squeezes his legs around Pierre’s waist.

Anatole is thoroughly enjoying it, breath heavy with pain and pleasure and nails digging into the oak wood of the desk.

 

Pierre can barely blame him – he is so hard it hurts, and his head is spinning with lust and rage all at once.

How has he never done this before, never even considered it? He was aware of his interest in men and women alike, but never had he considered Anatole. When he had seen Dolokhov and Anatole fight and kiss and fuck (sometimes all three at once), he had always looked away in quiet shame.

And now Anatole is here and so willing, gasping softly at the strong hand in his hair and Pierre’s mind races with possibilities. He could undo his straining trousers and fuck Anatole’s mouth, take his throat and get his own pleasure long before he lets Anatole come. Or if there was a bed, he'd place Anatole over his lap and bounce him until the young man screamed – oh _God,_ Pierre has never felt so excited in his life. 

 

As enticing as every thought is, he doesn’t want to see Anatole’s face. With one hand in Anatole’s hair and the other by the collar of his shirt, Pierre flips the man face down onto the desk and immediately Anatole shudders in anticipation.

Pierre grinds himself against Anatole’s ass, aimlessly and just to get some sort of much desired friction onto his own arousal, and even with Anatole face pressed down he can see his jaw clench.

 

He shoves himself close so that there is no space between them, and so that every time Anatole squirms or wriggles under his weight he presses against Pierre’s groin.

“Wait,” Anatole then says and Pierre freezes still, petrified to ruin the moment. Anatole doesn’t push him off, instead wriggles a hand into the pocket of his vest, retrieves something, and then in a showcase of agility hands it to Pierre.

It’s a little bottle, glass and filled with a somewhat golden liquid of thicker consistency than water.

It’s _oil_ , Pierre then realizes as Anatole bucks against his groin and sends sparks flying again. 

 “Less you mean to take me dry,” Anatole says in a voice that’s too assumptive and bold for Pierre’s tastes. Of course he wouldn't, the little experience he has with men taught him very quickly that lubricant  _always_ was welcome. 

“Do you carry this on your person at all times?” Pierre asks with amusement and disgust, undoing his too tight trousers with his free hand. “Or only when you plan to elope?”

“At all times, I never know if–“

He shuts up the moment Pierre drags down Anatole’s pants and underwear with one yank – those terrible snug trousers that give him the physique of a ballerina dancer. He pinches Anatole’s bare ass and gets his first noise of pure discomfort, and Pierre can’t hold back a chuckle.

“That’s where your limit is?” he asks and goes back to the little bottle, uncorking it and coats the fingers of his right hand generously, and Anatole gives a low growl.

“I can handle it, old tease, if you’d only be a little less–“

 

Pierre pushes in a finger all at once and Anatole’s words end in a scream. He arches his back and Pierre puts his free hand at the base of Anatole’s back and pins him back down onto the desk. He pushes down so Anatole can’t wriggle himself loose, just be still as Pierre moves his finger. It makes Pierre feel a little triumphant. 

“No, go on,” Pierre says and makes his voice unbothered, as if the sight of Anatole squirming and gasping isn’t one of the most attractive things he’s ever seen. “If I’d only be a little less what?”

Anatole’s breath is heavy and his eyes screwed shut, and Pierre weighs him down a little more and pushes his finger in deep. In return Anatole cries out and desperately tries to buck himself back against Pierre’s fingers, to get something more instead of just being pinned still as Pierre takes him.

 

“A little less slow,” Anatole finally peeps and holds onto the edge of the desk until his knuckles whiten. He certainly says these things just to get a reaction out of Pierre, so he will hurry up and be rougher, and it doesn’t conflict Pierre enough to not add a second finger.

 

Even if he can’t stand to look at him, he briefly wishes he could see all of Anatole’s face - all he can hear is Anatole’s constant and eager whimpers as Pierre holds him in place and fucks his fingers in and out.

It’s been a fair amount of time since Pierre was with anyone, especially a man. He doesn’t wholly remember how much preparation it takes, but at this point Pierre has more intents to tease him than to stretch him.

And it works wonderfully. Anatole is pressed to the table with his cheek against the oak wood, eyes painfully shut and mouth closed so that the only noises coming from him are whines in the bottom of his throat.

At least until Pierre crooks his fingers up against Anatole’s prostate and he shouts again.

 

“God _damn_ it, Pierre, put it _in_ ,” Anatole snarls in a voice that clearly expects Pierre to not listen, so Pierre does the opposite.

He withdraws his fingers, pulls himself out, oils himself up just the smallest amount and replaces his fingers with his own cock.

Anatole becomes breathless and tense, and Pierre gives him no time to adjust, pushing himself in all the way in in one smooth motion as Anatole cries out and trembles underneath his weight. Anatole’s legs quiver terribly and he holds onto the desk for dear life, and when Pierre seats himself to the hip he hears Anatole let out the most pleased noise he’s ever heard.

 

“Is this what you wanted, Tolya?” Pierre almost purrs and rolls his hips, barely pulling himself out before burying himself deep again and relishing in the feeling. Anatole trembles around him and Pierre looms over him, pushing in and out in very shallow thrusts and Anatole cries out and takes him. 

“Breathe,” Pierre encourages and Anatole gasps loudly. “Relax and breathe, or I’m stopping and leaving you to deal with yourself.”

“Oh god, _yes_ , don’t stop–“ Anatole begs, and with that encouragement Pierre doesn’t hold back.

 

He keeps one hand on Anatole’s back, holding him firmly in place as Pierre fucks him at own accord and Anatole can do nothing but take it.

Pierre has no intents to care for Anatole’s pleasure, he focuses on himself and on the way Anatole trembles and twitches around him. At least until Anatole reaches down to touch his own neglected cock, upon which Pierre fucks in deep and boxes him in against the desk so he cannot reach.

 

Anatole gives a little whine of complaint, and then he returns to holding onto the desk like it is a lifeline and breathing heavily.

 

Pierre silently hopes that Hélène nor the servants are nearby, because dear god Anatole is _loud_. He never ceases his noises, melodic and soft in nature, while Pierre is mostly silents save for the occasional moan when Anatole clenches down.

 

“I’m close,” breathes Anatole, and Pierre withdraws himself wholly in a wicked idea. He pulls his cock out, just long enough for Anatole to try and see what he’s doing, and then he slams himself all the way back in and Anatole screams.

“Don’t come yet,” Pierre says; he wants to make this last, forcing his own climax down. “I’m not done with you already.”

 

But he’s very so close. Every thrust sends sparks into the pool of heat in Pierre’s gut, and every time another moan shakes loose from Anatole’s chest he has to bite back a groan.

He grabs onto the edge of the desk with one hand as leverage, using it to drag himself deep as his pace becomes erratic.

 

It’s enough to send Anatole over the edge, and the man comes with a scream that echoes throughout the office.

 

Pierre isn’t at all far behind; Anatole is in a state of overstimulation, completely wrung out and on the edge. He moans and cries out helplessly and without pause, and still through some feat Anatole is actually enjoying it.

 

Anatole reaches out a hand, as if he needs something to ground himself on, and in the moment Pierre can’t help but think the little act is _cute_.

“Pierre, Pierre, _Petrushka_ , oh god please–“ Anatole babbles and Pierre takes his hand. Anatole squeezes it with surprising strength, crying out again and again as Pierre fucks into him.

 

When Pierre reaches the crest of his own pleasure, he grabs the edge of the desk with both hands and thrusts himself in as far as he possibly can.

The heat in his gut bursts, painfully warm waves ebbing through him as he finishes deep inside Anatole with a shout. Anatole gives a happy sob as Pierre fills him, rolling his hips weakly and clutching at the table for dear life.

 

He does his best not to collapse onto Anatole, instead leaning in very close and resting against the table still buried so mind numbingly deep. Anatole squirms beneath him and his moans have turned into the tiniest series of gasps, so high they’re almost sweet.

It had been years since Pierre took someone in such earnest, so long since his own orgasm had sent him into a warm fog of affection.

If the situation was any more tender he would consider kissing Anatole, or at the very least nip at his ear.

 

“Pierre–“ whimpers Anatole, barely audibly beneath him and pulls Pierre out of his soft haze.

“Hm?”

“You’re still inside me–“

 

Pierre immediately pulls out and Anatole groans in genuine exhaustion, collapsed onto the table and entirely spent. Pierre is as well, tucking himself back into his pants and then falling into his office chair because he can’t yet stand.

 

Both of them wheeze for a little moment, Anatole still bent over and ass in the air as he collects himself.

Anatole stands up and gives a noise of discomfort, leaning against the desk and looking like a pleased cat.

Pierre wipes his oiled hand off on a handkerchief allows himself to acknowledge the mess they’ve made: their clothes, his desk, a little puddle on the floorboards-

 

“You came on my floor,” Pierre croaks, and there’s not a hint of fury or strength left in his voice.

“And you came in me, so we’re even,” replies Anatole, and for some ungodly reason that causes Pierre to blush horribly. That, out of all the things he’s done.

 

Anatole tugs his trousers up with a twist of his hips, apparently unbothered by the fact that Pierre’s seed is still deep inside him.

Anatole stretches, rubbing his aching back and neck, not entirely able to walk or stand, and Pierre just stares at him.

 

 _Why_ did Anatole have to be such an annoyingly handsome man – the mere sight of him refused to let Pierre forget what he had done, and every fresh memory made his chest bubble with warmth.

 

“That was so fantastic,” Anatole says and takes a limping step, grimacing and rubbing his hips. “Why did we have to do that now? I should’ve pissed you off years ago, since this is how you think to punish.”

 

“This might’ve been a mistake,” Pierre answers and Anatole laughs. Now it’s Pierre’s turn to be meek and for Anatole to be bold and mocking.

“A lovely mistake, Pyotr, if you’re still going to toss me out of Moscow then this was a fine farewell.”

 

Anatole half-limps towards him and Pierre tries to retreat into his chair.

“You didn’t hurt me, Pierre,” Anatole says and his tone is sincere for once. “This is nothing I haven't done before. Sure, you're a lot stronger and I don't know if I'll be able to walk until the end of winter, but dear God was it worth it.”

He kisses Pierre on the cheek, and Pierre blushes again.

 

“I’ll burn the letters,” Anatole goes on and Pierre had nearly forgotten about that. Anatole tosses the little bottle of oil into his pocket, straightening his shirt and his vest and half-limps past Pierre with a coy grin.

“But I’m not leaving Moscow yet,” he adds and puts another chilling kiss on Pierre’s neck before he moves to leave the room. Anatole tries to keep his steps light and graceful, but the occasional step is weak and Pierre gives a little shiver at the memory of how tight Anatole was around him.

 

“Maybe I won’t have to leave Moscow at all,” Anatole goes on, “maybe I can get Marya Dmitrievna to be as forgiving as you were.”

Pierre can’t help but laugh at that, and Anatole makes a brief face of annoyance.

“Marya?” calls Pierre as Anatole opens the door. “I’d tell your sister to go speak to her if you want the slightest chance of forgiveness, and even then she’s not the one you should worry about – do you genuinely think _Marya_ would forgive you?”

 

Anatole stops, one hand lazily on the door handle as he leans back and forth and thinks.

“No, maybe not Marya, but Andrey might,” Anatole says thoughtfully, and then he was gone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, i'm so nervous posting this, miss me w that abusive shit, have a nice day, this is the inspiration https://78.media.tumblr.com/378dfcad6ea144f643d0cc07ec0c2e19/tumblr_pcf8pbEL8N1sx88n2o3_r1_400.gif


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